When I Rule the World, I'll Plant Flowers
by For the Kingdom
Summary: Quirrell wasn't a Death Eater. So why did Voldemort trust him, of all people, to be the one to protect his half-dead soul? Because he had always trusted him the most; more than the Death Eaters. Because he saw Tom through his years at Hogwarts. Quirrell was the shy, nerdy roommate Tom could always depend on. Influenced by AVPM/S/SY. AU where Tom attended at same time as Marauders.
1. When I Rule the World, I'll Have Snakes

_When I Rule the World, I'll Plant Flowers_

Chapter One: When I Rule the World, I'll Have Snakes

Hogwarts was dark and quiet except for the faint creak of moving staircases. It had only been a month since summer had ended and Quirrell's room was a comfortable temperature: brisk with the first breath of autumn yet with the lingering warmth of summer that kept the room from getting too cold. His entire sleeping arrangement was perfect, in fact, except that he had to sleep on his stomach, which hurt his neck.

Quirrell had explained to Voldemort before that if they slept on their side, both of them could avoid having a face-full of pillow, but Voldemort wasn't having any of it. He insisted on sleeping on his back as he had always done. Which meant Quirrell had to sleep face down and if he shifted too much, there would be hell to pay.

Voldemort wouldn't even let Quirrell wear the cotton sleeping cap he always wore to bed because it got in his eyes, he said. Meaning Quirrell's shaved head was much too cold.

It would be worth it, though, as Quirrell kept reminding himself. If he could put up with this for a year and if Voldemort succeeded, Quirrell would be rewarded with power and glory. Voldemort would always know him as the one who had done this favor, and the Dark Lord did not forget favors lightly.

The Dark Lord had chosen Quirrell. Not Lucius, not Bellatrix, not Snape. Voldemort hadn't chosen one of his Death Eaters. No, he had chosen to trust Quirrell of all people, with this shattered piece of his soul. Quirrell wasn't even, strictly speaking, a Death Eater. On the surface, it seemed like a foolish move. But then again, Quirrell was Voldemort's—Tom's—oldest friend.

HOGWARTS, 1971

It had seemed fun at the time, but now that he was actually standing in front of the giant double doors of—what had Mr. Dumbledore called it? Hogwarts, that's right. Tom wrung the strap of the bag over his shoulder.

Tom was a wizard. There was no doubt. He had just spent the day bustling down Diagon Alley, buying wizard tools for doing wizard things and wizard books for learning wizard spells. He wasn't like those horrid children at the orphanage and he'd never have to see their ugly faces again. He was special. This was where he belonged.

And yet he didn't belong. All the other magic kids, they had grown up knowing they were special. They had grown up with loving parents, doing magic.

Tom was the muggle here. He knew it and he hated it. He saw it in the eyes of the other eleven-year-olds. They were better than him and they knew it.

Suddenly Tom felt a presence behind him. He turned around and saw Mr. Dumbledore smiling over him. "Shall we go into the Great Hall? There is a magnificent feast with all kinds of goodies."

Tom gripped the strap of his bag harder, fingers shaking. He wanted to say something, but it was as if his lips had been sewn shut.

Dumbledore had been the one to accompany him to Diagon Alley. He had put his hand on his shoulder five times since they had met. Five times. Tom had counted. That was more physical contact than Tom ever remembered having. It was so warm, so gentle, and it made him want to cry.

Dumbledore did it again, put his hand on Tom's shoulder like a protective cloak. Tom felt that strange warmth again, the kind that made him want to cry. But he couldn't cry in front of all these wizards and witches.

Getting no response, Dumbledore patted his shoulder. "Let's go inside, Tom, alright?"

Tom managed to nod his head.

Dumbledore led him into a room full of floating candles, benches, tables piled with food, and people in robes, more people than Tom had ever seen in his life. After telling Tom to find a seat, Dumbledore left for the teachers' table at the front.

Tom almost grabbed for the bearded wizard, but he didn't. After a moment of staring glassy-eyed at the scene around him, Tom looked for an empty table in the corner, somewhere quiet and safe.

Someone bumped into his arm. Tom jerked and tried to step out of the way. He bumped into someone else, nearly pushing her into her plate. "I-I-I'm sorry—"

Bump. Someone else brushed against him. As he stepped out of their way, his feet tangled in his robes. Panic seized him as he lurched towards the floor.

Seemingly out of thin air, a small hand grabbed the back of his robe and pulled him back. Tom's backside impacted with an empty spot on a bench at one of the tables.

Sitting next to Tom was the kid who had saved him, a first-year with short light-brown hair and a freckled face. "That was close," said the boy with an awkward little laugh, his ears going red.

Tom smiled a smile of equal awkwardness. "Yeah, i-it was. Too many people."

"You're telling me," replied the boy. "I can hardly breathe in here."

"Or think," Tom added.

"It's like there are so many, they're even crowding into my head."

"Exactly!" Tom's smile was more genuine this time. "The-the dorm better not be like this."

"If it is, I might sleep in the bathroom."

"Ha ha!"

The boy extended his hand, his arm tilted awkwardly to keep his elbow out of the plate next to him. "I'm Quirrell. My first name is actually Quirinus, but only my mother calls me that."

"M'Tom."

"That's an interesting name. 'Tom,'" said Quirrell. "Is it muggle?"

"No," said Tom, his heart leaping. "I mean, I'm not a muggle. I'm a wizard. I can do magic."

Quirrell picked up on Tom's panic. "Oh I know," Quirrell amended quickly. "I just mean, is it from—is it…" Quirrell had talked himself into a hole and he knew it. "I mean, are you muggle-born?"

"No, of course not," Tom answered too loudly. "My parents are great wizards. Both my mom and my dad."

"You mean 'wizard and witch'?"

"Huh?"

"Your mom can't be a wizard. She would be a witch."

Tom's face went red. "Y-yeah. That's what I meant."

If it hadn't been obvious already, Quirrell now knew Tom had grown up as a muggle. "Quirrell" was the most wizardly name Tom had ever heard. He would know Tom was faking it. If Quirrell knew, he didn't say anything about it.

Dumbledore walked up to the podium at the front of the hall and when he did, the golden owl on the front opened its wings. Tom shouldn't have been surprised by that sort of thing anymore. He had spent the day having a wand choose him, going to a bank run by goblins, and being carted to a magical school in a horse and cart with no horse. Yet Tom rubbed his eyes and stared at the owl, in case he had only imagined it moving. Quirrell didn't seem bothered by the moving owl podium. Of course he wouldn't be, since he had grown up around such things.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," announced Dumbledore and the room went silent. "September first and a new year begins. I want to extend a very special welcome to you first-years. I know many of you have had brothers and sisters and parents who have attended Hogwarts before you, and you already know much of what I am going to say, but many of you do not, so I will say it anyway." He cleared his throat. "In just a few minutes, each of you will be sorted into one of the four houses: Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, and Slytherin."

"I hope I get into Gryffindor," whispered Quirrell.

"Why?" Tom whispered back.

Quirrell gave him a bewildered look. "Everyone does," he explained. "It's the house of the brave."

"Oh," Tom said quickly. "Then I want to be Gryffindor, too."

"Ooh, look! It's the sorting hat!" said Quirrell, grabbing Tom's arm and pointing. "It's the actual sorting hat!"

Tom jerked but didn't pull away. Here was another person touching him, someone else who wasn't afraid of him.

The sorting ceremony began. Tom kept track of who was sorted into which house, but there were so many kids he lost track. And the names those kids had! They hardly seemed real. Sirius and Bellatrix Black, Lucius Malfoy; at least there were a few ordinary names like Evans and Potter.

"Quirinus Quirrell," called Dumbledore.

"That's me," said Quirrell as he stood. Quirrell sat in the chair on the platform and Dumbledore placed the sorting hat on his head. The room watched in anticipation.

"Slytherin!" The hat announced.

The room erupted in applause and Quirrell smiled, his ears going red again as he walked between the benches, people patting him on the back as he passed. He sat down, a big grin on his face.

"You didn't get into Gryffindor," said Tom.

"That's okay," replied Quirrell. "Snakes are nice, too." Tom had no idea what he meant.

"Thomas Riddle!"

Shaking, Tom got to his feet and hurried to the stage. What would he do if he and Quirrell weren't in the same house? With an encouraging smile, Dumbledore guided Tom to the chair and set the sorting hat onto his head.

"Interesting," said a voice Tom could only guess came from the hat. "You have a thirst for knowledge indicative of a Ravenclaw, but your drive—my goodness that drive. You're determined to be great, aren't you? To be the best. You are brave, true, and I see you want to be a Gryffindor. But you want it because you believe it to be superior. Hm…this is a tough one…but I do believe you're in Slytherin, the house of the ambitious."

"Slytherin!" the hat announced out loud.

The crowd clapped Tom looked at Dumbledore, who nodded approvingly. Tom quickly left the stage and back towards his seat. Just as they had done for Quirrell, students who had been sorted into Slytherin before him grabbed at his arms and patted his back as he walked, shouting welcomes and introductions.

Tom dared a smile. The house of the ambitious. Slytherin was for ambitious wizards—powerful wizards! He had always known he was special, deep down, but he hadn't known just how special. True, Quirrell had gotten into Slytherin, as well as quite a few other students, but they were probably just ambitious. Anyone could be ambitious. The sorting hat had specifically called Tom powerful. Tom, an orphan from the muggle world, powerful!


	2. There Are So Many Douchebags in theWorld

Chapter Two: There Are So Many Douchebags in the World

Tom had never eaten so well in his life. He might have eaten a little too well, as now that the feast was over, he felt bloated and sick. Quirrell had eaten significantly less, which would explain how he still had enough energy to run around the Slytherin common room and dormitories, dragging Tom up and down staircases, loudly pointing out things that Tom already saw.

Tom could only remain the quiet one who was dragged around for a little while. When he started noticing things Quirrell had missed and it was clearly okay to get excited about magical things right now, Tom found himself pointing and shouting and dragging Quirrell over to see things that amazed him. When he did, Quirrell never turned up his nose or said talking paintings and winding staircases were old news for wizards. Instead, Quirrell squealed in delight, reveling with Tom in these new wonders.

"We'd better get to the boys' dormitory to choose our beds before we're stuck with the worst ones," said Tom as he poked the canvas of a painting of a general on a horse.

"Oh yes!" replied Quirrell. "If I'm put by the window, I'll freeze!"

Trying not to trip on their robes on the winding staircase up from the Slytherin common room, the two boys scampered into the boys' dormitory.

The door to the dormitory was so small Tom and Quirrell had to duck to get inside. From the look of some of the Slytherin boys, they would have had to full-on crawl to get in.

Besides the few students who were sitting by the fire in the common room, most of the students in this branch of the dorm had already chosen their beds and were unpacking. They went around to the separate rooms, each with five beds. Only one of the rooms had two empty beds and those beds were by windows.

"Oh no," groaned Quirrell.

"'Oh no' is right," agreed Tom.

"I can't sleep by the window all year!" complained Quirrell.

"Oh, boo hoo!" came a nasally voice from the bed in the corner by the radiator.

Sensing the tension, the crowd parted to let through a boy with the longest, blondest hair Tom had ever seen. Lucius Malfoy had a smug expression on his face that made Tom instantly despise and admire him, for Tom could tell Lucius came from a highbrow wizarding family and that he looked down on everyone.

Lucius crossed his arms. "Well _someone_ must be sacrificed to the dementors that roam the school grounds, and we decided it might as well be you two. The squirrell and the riddle."

"I-it's Quirrell, actually." It was apparent that Quirrell wasn't accustomed to being bullied. Tom was. He could pick out a bully at fifty paces. "A-and I'm not afraid, I just get cold."

"It's just as well," continued Lucius. "I hear half-bloods freeze well." He turned his steely eyes to Tom and sneered. "So do mudbloods."

Quirrell gasped. Tom didn't know what either of those terms meant, but they were clearly insults.

Tom lunged at Lucius and punched him squarely in the face. Lucius fell back, stunned, holding his nose. He carefully opened his hands and put a finger to his nostril.

"I'm bleeding!" Lucius cried in rage. "You filthy little—"

"Bugger off, Malfoy, or I'll hit you again," Tom growled, fists clenched. He meant it, too. Tom would have happily beaten the snot out of that prick.

"I'll tell Dumbledore and you'll be expelled," said Lucius.

Quirrell stepped forward. "Then I'll tell him you called Tom a—er—a-a mudblood."

Lucius stumbled clumsily to his feet, his long hair mussed, blood dripping from his crooked nose. "We'll see who he listens to when he gets a load of what you did to my face!"

With that, Lucius stormed out of the dormitory, followed by a few of the boys.

"Good job, Tom," said one of the students. "I had been meaning to pop him one ever since the feast."

"Thanks," said Tom.

"I agree," chimed in another student, one with silky black hair. "Not the most effective way to silence him, but the most gratifying, surely."

Now here was a kindred spirit. Tom smiled and held out his hand. "Tom Riddle," he said.

The solemn boy shook his hand. "Severus Snape."

"Come on," said Tom as he walked briskly to one of the beds where Lucius had dumped Quirrell's things. "Where is Lucius Malfoy's bed?"

"Right here," said Severus.

"Help me with this, Quirrell."

Quirrell obeyed and together they moved Quirrell's things to Lucius' bed and moved Lucius' things to the bed by the window.

When they finished, Quirrell was glowing with admiration. "Thank you, Tom. This means a lot."

"Lucius had it coming," Tom explained, still in a huff about the whole thing. "And if he gives you any grief about switching beds, I'll hit him again."

"Thanks," said Quirrell. "But what about you? You're still by the window."

"Oh, I don't mind. I kind of like it, actually."

Through the small entryway came a young man with remarkably bad teeth and behind him came Lucius, holding a hand towel to his nose.

"The headmaster would like a word with you, Master Riddle," said the man. All eyes watched Tom in shock. "This way please."

"You haven't been here seven hours and already you're in my office over a broken nose."

"He deserved it."

"Tom! It doesn't matter whether he deserved it or not. Fighting is not acceptable at Hogwarts!" Dumbledore sighed and sat behind his desk, which was strewn with magical trinkets and papers. "You are here, as are all the students, to learn how to become good wizards and witches. And a good wizard or witch does not solve their problems by punching people in the face! That method is reserved for muggles."

Tom scowled into his lap, clenching fistfuls of his robe. "He called Quirrell a half-blood and me a mudblood."

"Is that so?" mused Dumbledore, slowly taking out a piece of paper and scribbling down a few notes with a quill. "He conveniently left that out. I'll have a talk with Master Malfoy later, then. Though strictly speaking, Tom, neither of those terms should be an insult. 'Half-blood' just means the son or daughter of a muggle and a witch or wizard, which Master Quirrell is. And 'mudblood,' well, that is a very rude way of saying a wizard or witch born of two muggle parents. There is no shame in either of those categories. Why, some of the best witches and wizards I've known are muggle-born."

"But I'm not muggle-born!" protested Tom. "I'm not a mudblood!"

"You don't know that, neither does Lucius, neither do I, for that matter. Even if you were, it doesn't mean you're any less of a wizard."

"But I can't be a muggle."

"You aren't. You're a wizard. It doesn't matter where you came from. Even if your parents were muggles, you are still Tom Riddle, a wizard. Did you know that some people from two wizarding parents are born without a talent for magic? Would you rather be in that situation?"

"Well, no," Tom replied quietly. "I just, I always imagined I came from a long line of great wizards and witches."

"You very well might have," said Dumbledore. "And even if you didn't, well, that long line of prestigious wizards and witches will start with you."

Tom smiled. "I guess so."

"Good," Dumbledore smiled, too. "I love you, Tom. Don't let students like Malfoy get you down."

There came a soft rapping at Dumbedore's office door.

"Come in," called Dumbledore.

The door creaked open. It was Quirrell.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir," Quirrell said, voice shaking. "I-I just wanted to tell you, sir, that Lucius called Tom a...a-a-a 'mudblood' and that's why Tom punched him. Lucius was being a jerk, sir."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Very good. Yes, I have heard that already from Tom, thank you Quirinus. It was brave of you to come forward."

Quirrell smiled sheepishly.

Dumbledore turned back to Tom. "Go on back to the dorm, you two. Classes start promptly at eight."

Tom got up from the chair and walked to meet Quirrell.

"And Tom." Tom turned around. "No more fighting, if you please."

* * *

A/N: Poor little Quirrell, having to use such foul language. I just picture him in Dumbledore's office reporting Lucius and then, in the middle of it, Quirrell realizes he's going to have to repeat what Lucius said, and then his ears go as red as steamed beets.


	3. When I Start to Sway, I Get Carried Away

Chapter Three: When I Start to Sway, I Get Carried Away

Tom and Quirrell walked back towards the Slytherin dorm together. The main hallways of Hogwarts were nearly abandoned since, by now, most students had found their common rooms and were enjoying getting to know their fellow housemates. Making friends and talking about how incredibly alike they were. Laughing over how well they were getting along.

And here Tom had been in a fight not five minutes after setting foot in the Slytherin dormitory. Tom's fist still ached with the imprint of Lucius' face. Malfoy had a large nose and it had hurt to impact with it. Why had he done it? Tom didn't particularly like fighting. He always listed fighting as a fault of the mean boys at the orphanage. And here he was, acting just like them. Punching people in the nose for their opinions. For thinking they were better than all this.

Lucius had, unfortunately, been right. Muggles were dirty and the hierarchy extended away from them. Mudbloods were lower than half bloods and half bloods were lower than pure blood wizards, naturally. Purebloods were completely removed from muggles. And it was obvious Lucius was pureblooded, otherwise he wouldn't have called Tom and Quirrell those names.

"I don't think I ate enough," complained Quirrell rubbing his stomach.

Tom smiled in disbelief, shaken out of his thoughts. "Why not?"

"I was too excited! I wanted to see the school, the dormitories, the paintings!"

Tom looked forward and shook his head. "I don't think that's something I can help you with, sorry Quirrell."

"That's alright," said Quirrell, shuffling his feet. "Breakfast will come soon enough. And besides, you've done enough for me already. You're a hero, Tom."

Tom blushed but he didn't protest. He wanted to be a hero and he was afraid that if he denied it, he might convince Quirrell that he wasn't.

"You know a place we didn't get to investigate," said Quirrell, trying to look cunning.

Tom raised an eyebrow and turned. "Where?"

"The library."

Tom scoffed and looked ahead again. "The library? Quirrell, you must be joking!"

Quirrell looked hurt. "But Hogwarts has one of the best libraries in Europe! Full of all sorts of books! Novels, spell reference books, and then there's the restricted section—"

"There's a restricted section?"

Quirrell nodded, eager to improve Tom's opinion of the library. "Absolutely! My mum tells me it has an alarm and everything."

"I wonder what books it would hold that would warrant such protection," mused Tom.

"A lot of dark magic, probably," offered Quirrell.

Tom stopped in his tracks and Quirrell walked on a few more steps before he noticed and turned back.

"Let's go see," said Tom, a spark in his eye. "Want to?"

Quirrell looked worried. "What? But the restricted section is…restricted! We'll get in so much trouble if we're caught—"

"So we won't get caught," said Tom. "Come on, Quirrell. Everyone will be busy with unpacking and preparing for the first day of classes. No one is going to be in the library."

"Except the librarian."

"I hardly think so at this hour." Tom smiled eagerly. "Come on."

Quirrell gave a pained look.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Unless you want to go back to spend the night with a bloodied and angry Malfoy."

"He might take my bed again," Quirrell protested in a little voice.

"If he does, I'll push him out," insisted Tom. "And I'll keep pushing him until he stays out."

Quirrell bit his lip and fidgeted with his robe. Then a smile crept onto his face. "Alright, let's do it. With all that has already happened tonight, I feel prepared for an adventure."

"That's the spirit," said Tom happily, though he wasn't ready to pat Quirrell's shoulder or hug him round the neck to show affection like some of the rowdier children at the orphanage did. Not just yet. He spun slowly in a circle, looking at the walls and corridors in turn. "Now," he said, "where might the library be?"

* * *

The boys ended up spending nearly an hour trying to find the library. The longer they searched, the more determined Tom was to find it. He couldn't shake the notion that it might be down the corridor just ahead of them, couldn't shake the fear that if they turned back, it would be right before the correct corridor.

Quirrell shuffled along behind him, tired and hungry, as he kept reminding Tom.

"We have classes all day tomorrow, Tom!" whined Quirrell. "There's no way we'll be able to make it through."

"Nothing important ever happens on the first day of class," sighed Tom, growing irritable. "As long as we show up to the right classes at the right times, we'll be fine."

"But I'm tired—"

Tom groaned. "I have a cold and I'm fine, so you're fine."

"But—" Quirrell cut off and pointed. "I found it! I see shelves!"

They ran to it, forgetting that they had been quiet so they wouldn't get caught. On one of the tables sat a lantern lit by some sort of magical fire that wasn't quite fire. Seeing this lantern, Tom had a moment of panic and he and Quirrell hid behind a bookshelf, in case the owner of the lantern was still there. They stayed there, breathing as quietly as they could for several minutes. No one came and though Tom strained to hear any small sound indicating someone was in the library, he heard nothing. Perhaps the lantern was left lit at night. It wasn't technically fire, so it wasn't a fire hazard to leave it lit among shelves of old books.

"I don't think anyone is here," whispered Quirrell.

"Neither do I," agreed Tom as they crept out from their hiding place and into the aisle.

Tom had never been a fan of libraries, per say. They were quiet, and he liked that, but he never got the rush that some of the other children got from the smell of paper and shelves of books. And whenever he was in the library, it was always part of some "field trip" or other, so he wasn't actually ever alone. He was always being watched more carefully than the other orphans by the chaperones, even more carefully than they watched the mean boys. They had watched him as if they expected him to intentionally burst into flames and run around burning the other orphans. It wasn't Tom's fault that the other boys picked on him until bad things started happening to them. He had always thought it was his guardian angel sticking up for him, punishing people who hurt him. Now he knew that it was his own power.

All that aside, Tom could see why Quirrell liked libraries so much, if other wizarding libraries were anything like this one. Shelves full of books, outlandish titles such as, _Cures for Magical Maladies_, _The Complex Society of Trolls_, and _The Tales of Beetle and Bard._ Tom liked this library. Maybe it was because he knew that inside each of these covers was information on a magical world he had only just recently discovered, a magical world that he was part of. These books contained spells for all manner of magic and, Tom thought, if he could manage to read every book in this library, he would be the most powerful wizard in the world by the time he was done.

"The restricted section is over here," came Quirrell's quiet voice. Tom followed him to a short gate with a flimsy chain and sign that read: Restricted. Alarm Will Sound.

"Well, there it is," said Quirrell, rocking back and forth on his feet. "Alarm and everything."

Tom blew his breath out between his lips in amazement. All these books full of magic that weren't in the restricted section. If not all books of spells were restricted, what made the restricted books so special? Maybe they contained really dangerous, really powerful spells. Maybe they contained spells to change your shape or to raise the dead. Things that Dumbledore didn't want careless students to stumble upon. Students that didn't have the sense to handle these spells with the proper care.

"Hold the back of my robe so I can lean over the railing and get one of the books," instructed Tom, holding a chunk of his robe out for Quirrell to grab.

"Won't the alarm sound?" protested Quirrell.

"Not if we don't actually set foot in the section, I'm thinking," replied Tom.

"But what if the alarm hex is attached to the books and not the floor?"

"It will be fine," Tom insisted. "Besides, going to the library was your idea."

"Only sort of," Quirrell mumbled. "But now I think we should go back. You've already gotten into trouble once. Twice before classes start wouldn't be a good beginning to your time at Hogwarts."

"It's in the pursuit of knowledge," said Tom. "The school can't get too upset over that. Now grab my robe, please. I'm going to lean."

Quirrell grabbed two fistfuls of Tom's robe and leaned back on his heels, closing his eyes in anxiety.

Tom reached for the nearest book, the one on the end of the shelf next to the fence. It was too dark to see the title but he knew whatever it was would be the best book he had ever read. Carefully, ever so carefully, Tom inched it out by the spine. Finally, it was in his hands.

Alarm bells exploded and echoed through the corridor. Quirrell let go of Tom's robes in fright and Tom fell against the fence, nearly somersaulting over it and into the restricted section. Tom righted himself and turned to Quirrell.

"Run!" he whispered, pushing Quirrell ahead of himself. They made it out of the corridor and into the boys' bathroom just as a light and footsteps appeared in the hallway.

Tom clutched the forbidden book to his heaving chest with one hand and he clutched Quirrell's shoulder with the other. Realizing what he was doing, he let go of Quirrell and held the book with both hands.

They both listened as voices and footsteps passed and the alarm turned off. Quirrell swallowed, trying to catch his breath as he wiped sweaty hairs out of his eyes. Tom slowly smoothed his hair back and tried not to breathe too loudly.

Tom and Quirrell looked at each other, excitement bubbling in their eyes. Quirrell was the first to laugh: silently of course. Tom's face broke out into a smile as well, a proper one that showed his teeth.

"I must admit," Quirrell whispered. "That was some kind of fun."

"Yes, and now we have this book." Tom ran his hand along the book's dusty spine.

"We won't be able to keep it for long, since they'll be missing it," observed Quirrell.

"They'll be missing it by now already, I'll bet," countered Tom. "But anyway, we will have to keep it hidden."

Quirrell smiled, showing his teeth. "Students by day…and-and I guess students by night, too?"

"Yes, technically. Only we'll get so much further ahead than all the other first-years. Eventually we'll surpass all of them."

"And then we'll rule the world."

"And then we'll rule the world," Tom agreed.

"Oh no you won't," said a voice that was unmistakably Dumbledore's. The bathroom door opened and Tom and Quirrell fell into the hallway, straight at Dumbledore's feet. The old wizard bent and took hold of the book. Tom wanted to keep a strong grip on it, to fight Dumbledore for it, but he knew better than that, so he let the headmaster take it.

"_Grey Potions_," Dumbledore read the title. "A little steep for first-years, wouldn't you agree, Tom?"

Tom righted himself and got to his feet. He was angry. He was hurt. A candlestick crashed to the floor near them in the hallway. A curtain ripped on its own. The bricks in the wall rattled.

Dumbledore steeled his jaw and he looked fiercer than Tom had ever seen. "That's enough, Tom."

Tom bit the inside of his cheek, glaring at the floor. The curtain stopped tearing. The wall stopped rattling. He wouldn't be able to get away with such tantrums here the way he could at Wooley's Orphanage.

"It is late and I am trying to get some rest before school starts tomorrow, and yet we need to have _another_ talk in my office," Dumbledore told Tom. Then he looked at Quirrell. "Both of you, come along."

Quirrell looked like he might pass out; clearly, upsetting Dumbledore was something he had hoped would never happen. _Join the club_, thought Tom. Tom admired Dumbledore. He respected him. He was grateful to him. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint him. Yet it was the first thing he had done.

* * *

A/N: I hadn't originally planned for Tom to get into so much trouble right from the start, but I feel like his curiosity, social isolation, and scrappiness would make him a troublemaker. As he gets older, however, I think he would learn how to better control these instincts, or at least hide them enough that he wouldn't get expelled or spend his life in detention.

Also, Lucius is ending up as something of Tom's enemy. How does Lucius go from little snot to being one of Voldemort's Death Eaters? You'll see!


	4. I've Never Felt So Little

Chapter Four: I've Never Felt So Little

Lucius had taken the bed by the window, but he did everything in his power to show that he was not happy with it. He was still up when the young Mr. Filch escorted Tom and Quirrell back to the Slytherin dormitories, though he didn't seem to be doing anything besides watching the door. Lucius wasn't reading or anything that would keep him up. No, he had stayed up with the light on so Tom could see how displeased he was.

Tom noticed but didn't care. So what if Lucius didn't like him? Most people didn't like Tom.

"And where have you two been at such a late hour?" Lucius asked, not even trying to hush his voice.

The care slipped off Tom's face, leaving it smooth and hard as a stone. He set to work pulling back the sheets.

Lucius turned up his lip and angled his icy glare towards little Quirrell, who was trying to get ready for bed as quickly as possible and avoid any more confrontation.

"What about you, Squirrel?" Lucius sneered. "What've you and Tom been doing then?"

"Nothing," sobbed Quirrell, who just wanted the night to be over. He struggled into his flannel pajamas and climbed into bed. "Leave us alone, Lucius," he complained into his pillow.

"Yes," said Tom, staring Lucius down as he crossed the room to turn out the light. "Just go to sleep." It would have had better effect if Tom actually knew how to turn out the light, but he didn't. Instead, he stood at the wall, trying not to look stupid as he fiddled with the magical switch until it went out almost a minute later.

Lucius didn't say anything. He had rolled over and Tom heard him dabbing his still-throbbing nose and wincing. Quirrell had rolled over as well, softly weeping.

Tom took off his robe but didn't want to dig for his nightshirt so he kicked off his shoes, took off his Slytherin-green tie and went to bed in his slacks, button-down shirt, and sweater vest. He completely engulfed himself in the blanket. Detention! What a rotten way to start the year.

* * *

Tom didn't know what he expected of Potion's Class, but it was not this; all of this looked too much like school. Like normal. Some things were still foreign—he had trouble just figuring out how to use a quill and inkwell—but the way people behaved in it seemed too normal. If a muggle were to walk into class, ignoring the cloaks and cauldrons, they would not think it was so great.

Then again, of course the students wouldn't look like the witches and wizards in his picture books. These were _real_, and they were still untrained: witches and wizards in only the most basic of forms.

That was the first thing Tom noticed about his classmates. The second thing was that there was truly a divide between wizard-born and muggle-born. Tom didn't know what it was, but he could easily pick out the first-years who had come from muggle families, as if mudbloods gave off an odor. Maybe it was their haircuts, or the way they spoke, or the way they walked; or maybe it was because they were a combination of stupid confidence and frightened confusion.

Looking down into his small cauldron of liquid, Tom stared at his reflection; his cheeks were too round, his lips too full, his eyelids too lazy. He had hoped that, somehow, being on the grounds of Hogwarts would magically transform him into a wizard, as if he would wake up on his first day of school tall and thin with bushy eyebrows, a beard, and spindly fingers, the type that all serious sorcerers possessed.

But it hadn't. He was still very much Tom. And he still looked like a muggle.

"Look sharp, Mr. Riddle," said Professor Slughorn, tapping on the table.

Tom sat back. "Sorry, sir," he said into his lap.

"Hm," Slughorn nodded, pondering whether to continue with Tom or to get on with the lesson. "Well, has anyone managed to make the starter for a Forgetfulness Potion yet?"

A hand went up across the room. "Yes, Miss Evans, let's see it."

Tom snuck a peek at his reflection again, then sat back to finish chopping his ingredients in disgust. He looked like a muggle, but truth was, he didn't know how to look like anything else.

* * *

"Quirrell, what's your family like?" asked Tom as they walked through the crowded hallway towards Defense Against the Dark Arts.

"My family?" repeated Quirrell. Tom nodded. "Well, Papa's a professor—not a magical one, a muggle one. And my mum writes novels. So, there's a lot of reading going on in the house, as you can imagine."

"Is that why you like libraries so much?" asked Tom.

"Probably," replied Quirrell. "Every summer since I can remember, we have gone as a family to museums all over wizarding England. Mostly the wizarding part. Papa always says he can't get enough of the wizarding world, so we don't visit muggle museums very often. Between you and me, I don't think he likes muggles much, even though he is one. But, uh, what about you?" asked Quirrell. "You said both your parents are magic-users?"

Tom's heart pounded and his face flushed. He concentrated his attention on folding and unfolding the strap on his bag. "W-well, I mean, I'm sure they are, because, b-because—"

"You don't _know_?" asked Quirrell, wide-eyed, trying and failing to be helpful.

"No, I mean, my-my mum died when I was born and my dad, he, well, I don't know where he is."

Quirrell was shocked. They stopped outside the doors of Defense Against the Dark Arts. "Did you take care of yourself, then? Your whole life?" he asked, enraptured. "Wait, how did you do that when you were just a baby? You couldn't have done that! Who took care of you?"

Tom hunched his shoulders and slowly shrunk into the wall as Quirrell talked. Tom didn't want to be discussing this. Why had he told Quirrell the truth? No one was supposed to ever know the truth!

"My, my, the riddle took care of himself his entire life?" Lucius approached, books in hand; Lucius was headed to Dark Arts but he always had time to embarrass other students. "How thick can you be, Squirrel? It's called an 'orphanage.' It's where muggles leave their young when they no longer want them." He barked a laugh and turned to Tom, smiling. "It appears calling you a mudblood last night was prophetic. Who knows? Maybe I'll be a diviner!"

Tom whipped out his wand and pointed it at Lucius. At first, Lucius looked worried, but then he smiled. "You're bluffing, Riddle. You don't know any spells. And your muggle caretakers wouldn't have taught you any."

Lucius was right but Tom wasn't going to let that stop him. "Quirrell, give me a spell."

"Um, well, there's Expelliarmus—"

"Expelliarmus!" shouted Tom, slashing his wand forward.

Light burst from his wand and threw Lucius backwards into the crowd of students. Excited, Tom smiled and pocketed his wand.

"Way to go, Tom!" Quirrell said, coming up and taking his hand. "That was incredible! You haven't even officially learned that spell yet! You cast it from just hearing it once!"

"And he'll never hear it again, if this keeps up."

Tom and Quirrell turned. The crowd had parted and approaching them was a very fed-up Mr. Filch.

* * *

"Tom."

"I didn't do anything—"

"Don't lie. And then there's you, Quirinus—"

"I'm so very sorry, Dumbledore, sir! I was only trying to help, and y-you should have heard the stuff Lucius Malfoy was saying, sir! He deserved it!"

Dumbledore looked past the boys, wistfully. "I feel like I have had this conversation before. In a dream, perhaps. Or maybe it was in a book."

Tom crossed his arms and slumped into his chair, scowling. He was getting tired of being in trouble. Hogwarts had so many rules, it was a miracle the students made any progress. On top of that, serious things were happening and Dumbledore was treating them like a joke.

"This is a school for learning magic, isn't it?" Tom demanded. "Why can't I use it?"

"You were using it to hurt another student," explained Dumbledore.

"He has been hurting me from the moment we met—"

"And he will be punished for it." Dumbledore sighed. "But we have been over this: both of you. A good wizard never uses violence as a first response. You cannot use magic to get revenge—"

"It has worked well so far," insisted Tom. He was not interested in playing games. He had a righteous indignation in his gut and he would not allow it to go unaddressed.

Dumbledore gazed at Tom for a few silent seconds. Then he looked at Quirrell.

"Quirinus, consider your detention extended by three days. Now get yourself back to class. I would like to speak privately with Mr. Riddle."

Quirrell glanced at Tom briefly before he nodded and quietly left Dumbledore's office; Tom's eyes followed Quirrell until the door fell into place behind him.

Dumbledore sighed and pulled open the front drawer of his desk. He motioned to the wooden chair off to the side of the room. "Have a seat, Tom."

Tom walked slowly to the chair and sat down.

"Bring the chair closer, if you please," clarified Dumbledore evenly.

Dragging the chair slowly towards the desk, Tom analyzed Dumbledore's tone. He didn't sound angry anymore, but he must be. No one calmed down that quickly. When Tom sat in the chair, Dumbledore leaned over his desk.

"Candy, Tom?" he asked. Hesitating, Tom took the round, hard sweet and slowly unwrapped it. As angry as Dumbledore likely was, he still wouldn't poison a student. The candy tasted something like butterscotch.

Dumbledore sat back and stared at Tom with such intent, he felt like the wizard's gaze fell on him like a physical blanket. Tom scratched his arm and looked away uncomfortably.

"What's on your mind, Tom?" Dumbledore asked softly. "What is bothering you?"

Everything and nothing, Tom didn't say. True, Lucius had been bullying him, but Tom was used to being picked on and he had developed a thick skin. For some reason, Lucius' jabs hurt him more than all the years of abuse by the other boys at the orphanage. It made him angry, but he wasn't angry with Lucius, exactly; he was angry because Lucius was right. He was angry because he wanted to be a great wizard, but he was just a weak, dimwitted little boy, a muggle in all the meaningful areas, and Lucius constantly reminded him of that. He was angry because he was embarrassed.

"I can't say," Tom answered.

On Dumbledore's face was an expression of pity. He folded his hands and leaned closer. "You can trust me with anything. I had hoped that was clear by now."

"It isn't that," said Tom, struggling for words. "I just don't…I'm happy to be here, but I'm also…a little sad."

"Sadness is normal when leaving what has been your home for so many years," explained Dumbledore, happy to have gotten to the heart of the matter.

"Maybe, but I'm not really sad about leaving Wooley's. I hated it there. I hated the headmistress, the other children, everything." Tom sniffed in disdain. "I don't think I'll ever miss them."

"Then what has you feeling down?" asked Dumbledore.

"I don't know," replied Tom, making hand motions, trying and failing to get his point across. "I just…I feel…I'm just…" he let his hands fall back into his lap, where he stared at them. "I'm not good with words, sir. I don't know how to explain it."

Dumbledore nodded along to his own thoughts for a moment before he stood from his chair and walked to a bookshelf. Curious, Tom watched Dumbledore search the shelves for something. "Ah," said Dumbledore as he took a thin black book from the shelf. As he walked back to his desk, he brushed dust off the top of the pages.

"This is a diary I bought for myself long ago and never used," explained Dumbledore as he handed the diary to Tom. Tom ran his hand over the stiff, leather cover. "I have a feeling it would find a better home with you."

Tom flipped through the blank pages. "Is it magical?" he asked.

"Not in the way you mean," answered Dumbledore. "It is, in all respects, identical to a muggle diary. But there _is_ some enchantment in writing down your feelings. Sometimes the thoughts you can't express verbally come out more smoothly in ink."

"You want me to keep a journal?" asked Tom, confused. This sounded like a cheap way to assign extra homework.

"I do," replied Dumbledore. "This exercise is for your own benefit, and I will not check up on you. It isn't an assignment. I want you to write something in your journal at least twice a week. It can be a word, or twenty pages. Just so long as you begin to get some of what's in your head down on paper."

"There isn't anything in my head," said Tom.

"Now Tom, we both know that isn't true," chided Dumbledore. "No one is going to be reading this but you, so you can write whatever you like, in as bad of grammar as you wish. So long as you get something down."

Tom turned the diary over in his hands. "And what will this prove?" he asked.

"Prove?" Dumbledore put a hand to his chest. "My dear boy, it isn't designed to _prove_ anything. But if I can be transparent with you, you and I both know you have a great deal of hurt stuffed into that chest of yours. A person cannot keep so much hurt inside them forever. It will come out in unexpected and unwelcome ways unless it is given a constructive outlet. I suspect your row with Malfoy is some of that."

Temper flaring, Tom sat forward. "Lucius started it—"

With a lift of his hand, Dumbledore cut him off. "Write them down, Tom, all your frustrations, and let me deal with discipline. I want you to practice letting those feelings out on paper rather than in brawls. Can you promise me you will try?"

Tom pensively bent some of the pages. "I'll try," he conceded.

Dumbledore smiled and reclined in his chair. "Good," he said like a breath. "Good. You are a special boy, a magic boy, who grew up with people who thought your talent was evil. But you're here now, Tom. You don't need to be on your guard, living like a cornered animal. You don't need to hurt people anymore. You're better than that."

Tom swallowed and nodded at the journal, bending more pages. Dumbledore guided Tom towards the door, a friendly hand on his back: that made six times. "I'm going to add one week to your detention for fighting, and that is all we will say about the matter." He opened the door. "I trust I won't see you here again for the same kind of visit?"

"You won't, Professor," said Tom, slipping the diary into his schoolbag. "I promise."

Dumbledore smiled. "Good. Now if you hurry, you may still catch the end of Defense Against the Dark Arts."

* * *

A/N: Quirrell! Stop helping Tom!

Also, I did some research on Quirrell. Apparently, I was right in casting him as a half blood (go me), but canonically, he was in Ravenclaw. Hm. Oh well. Just another thing I'm stretching to make this story work. He is highly ambitious, though, so it might have been a toss up.


	5. Don't Ever Tell Me What I Can't Do

Chapter Five: Don't Ever Tell Me What I Can't Do

Tom probably could have made it back to class in time to hear the closing statements if he really wanted to, but he didn't. Instead, Tom slowed his gait and ducked into the boys' bathroom, locking himself into a stall so he could stare at Dumbledore's journal. Their talk swam around in his head. Dumbledore was right: there were a lot of bad feelings packed into Tom's heart. They made his chest ache to no end.

Writing his feelings down didn't seem like it would help—if anything, it would just remind Tom of how he felt—but Dumbledore was a great wizard, so if he thought it would, it was at least worth a try. And perhaps, doing so while in a school surrounded by so much magic would yield magical results.

Opening his bag on his lap, Tom fished out a quill and unopened inkwell. He opened the inkwell, set it on the toilet paper dispenser, and dipped the tip of the quill in it. Tom held the journal open on his lap and hovered the quill above the page, trying to think of anything he could write down. Anything at all. Something that would help but not put him too far into a slump: after all, he had to go to class in a few minutes.

His hand shaking, he pinched the quill tighter. No words were coming. He wanted so badly to write—to give Dumbledore's solution a try—but he couldn't describe how he felt. And he didn't know what was wrong. Things were just wrong.

With a groan, Tom closed the journal and put his ink and quill away. He'd try again later. It wasn't an assignment, anyway. If nothing came to him, then nothing came to him. There was no point in writing down false thoughts in a personal journal.

Oh well. Anyway, it was time for lunch, and Quirrell was likely wondering what had happened to Tom.

Tom headed down the crowded hallway. After walking about a hundred feet, Tom realized that he didn't actually know how to get to the Great Hall from Dumbledore's office but he wasn't about to ask someone the direction. Thankfully, all students had lunch at the same time, meaning that most students in the hallway were already headed there and Tom could follow them without letting on how lost he was.

The long tables in the Great Hall were piled high with all sorts of food. Smelling something akin to glazed ham, Tom realized how hungry he was. There was the Slytherin table, but where was Quirrell? Squeezing between the benches and trying not to trip on his robe, Tom scanned the tables for light brown hair and freckles. Unfortunately, neither of those features was particularly uncommon. His eyes ran across white blonde hair and an unhappy expression. Tom stopped in his tracks to glare at Lucius; their war would continue as long as Lucius continued to aggravate Tom, because Tom would never be the one to back down. Lucius needed to know that. They glared at each other long enough that some of the students around them began to notice and ask Lucius what was wrong. Lucius had hoped that Tom would be the one to break contact, but Tom had already decided he would win. Eventually, Lucius broke his gaze and silently turned back around to his food.

Determined not to break his careless exterior, Tom strode down the aisle, looking for Quirrell. Tom wanted to grin like an idiot, but he didn't. He had just bested Lucius Malfoy in a stare-down. Tom figured he would beat him eventually, since he probably had way more fighting experience than Lucius, but he thought it would have taken more of the year. He really needed to find Quirrell and tell him the good news; surely, that would make up for getting him into so much trouble.

Quirrell was near the end of the table and next to him was the boy who shook Tom's hand: Severus. They were far away from Lucius, thankfully, as Tom wouldn't know how to keep Lucius' respect through an entire meal; Tom didn't have the best table manners. There was no need for such finery at Wool's. For a moment, Tom was afraid that Quirrell wouldn't want to sit with him. Tom had gotten Quirrell detention twice, after all. Detention for anyone was humiliating, but for the little freckled, stuttering boy, it probably seemed like the end of the world. Tom thought of all this too late to turn back without forcing an awkward recognition from Quirrell, who was sitting on the other side of the table, facing Tom, and no more than five students down. Tom wrung the strap on his bag.

Munching on a buttered roll, Quirrell looked up and locked eyes with Tom. He seemed rattled, but not by Tom. He smiled and waved happily. Tom smiled back, his confidence renewed, and took a seat next to Quirrell at the very end of the bench, so far at the end that only one leg fit under the table.

"W-what did Dumbledore say?" asked Quirrell as he piled jam on his half-eaten bread roll. He talked like everything that had happened that morning hadn't happened. The fight with Lucius, their uncomfortable conversation in the hallway, but maybe Quirrell hadn't found that conversation uncomfortable. He bit into the roll, getting jam on his chin; he tried to wipe it off with his fingers, but they were covered in jam as well. Tom sighed, reached across the table for a napkin, and handed the napkin to Quirrell.

"Thanks," Quirrell smiled. "So? What did he say?"

Tom looked at his lap, thinking over their conversation. "Nothing important," he replied. "More of what he said when you were there. Just…yeah, just more of that."

"Did you get in a lot of trouble?" asked Quirrell.

"He made my detention a week longer," replied Tom, pensively spooning yams onto his plate, thinking about the diary. "Make of that what you will. But hey, I wanted to tell you, I think Lucius has finally given up."

Quirrell squinted suspiciously. "Given up on what?"

"Picking on us."

"How can you tell?"

"Well, I passed him in the Great Hall, and he broke eye contact first."

"He 'broke eye contact'?" Quirrell repeated, not getting the significance, or even quite what the phrase meant.

"We were glaring at each other, and he looked down first," explained Tom. Quirrell still looked confused, and now Severus looked confused, too. Tom sighed, frustrated. "It's a code. When you're glaring at someone, it's like a duel and the first one to look down loses. It's like a surrender, and Lucius surrendered."

"So much meaning in a glance," mused Severus.

"I've never heard of such a game," said Quirrell, scraping his potatoes into a pile. "Is it common among muggles?"

Tom almost bit through his lip. He slammed down his silverware, causing more than a few heads to turn. His ears burned bright red.

"It's common everywhere!" Tom insisted. "You obviously haven't paid attention to what glares _mean_!"

Bewildered, Quirrell stared at Tom, fork halfway to his mouth. Even Severus looked shocked. Glancing around, Tom saw that people were staring at him. He shrunk into his seat and wished that the bathroom wasn't so far away.

Students turned slowly back to their own conversations. "Sorry, Quirrell," Tom muttered. "It's just big news, is all."

"No, I believe you. Huge news!" Quirrell brightened back up. "If what you say is true, our problems might be solved!"

"Not all of them," Tom corrected, slowly leaning forward to mix his peas in his yams. "We still have detention."

Quirrell leaned into Tom and smiled. "But we'll have detention _together_," he almost sang. "At least, for the first ten days."

Tom couldn't stay sulky when Quirrell was smiling. For the moment, he forgot his shame. "Yeah," Tom said. "It will be fine. What's the worst they can do to us, really?"

Behind them, a silent shape appeared. Tom felt it in his spine before he saw it. He turned and behind him, to everyone's surprise, stood Lucius, trying to cover his embarrassment with anger and failing miserably.

"Hey, Riddle," he said under his breath. Tom raised his eyebrows and with a cocky slowness, turned fully around on the bench to face him; Tom was on top of the world today, and he could handle anything Lucius could hit him with. "Do you have a minute? I want to talk to you." Lucius glanced around at the casually interested looks that were gathering into an audience. "Privately."

Quirrell scrunched his face into a sneer. "Tom d-doesn't have anything to say to you, M-M-Malfoy."

"It's okay, Quirrell," said Tom, getting to his feet. "I'm not afraid of him."

Lucius didn't say anything until they were behind one of the stone columns in the hallway. Lucius was acting strange, but Tom steeled himself for a fight anyway, just in case.

The blonde boy glanced around to make sure they were really alone, and then looked into Tom's eyes. "I want to call a truce."

Well, Tom hadn't expected that. In fact, it was so unexpected, that Tom thought he might have heard it wrong. "Truce?"

"Yes, a truce. A pact," said Lucius steadily, with no hint of sarcasm or venom. "You've made it clear that you won't be pushed around, and I believe I've made the same point. The way I see it, we can continue to fight each other until we graduate, or we can call a truce right now and get onto the same side."

Tom didn't let his emotions show. "The same side?"

"Yes, the same side."

"And what would that entail?"

Lucius smoothed back his long hair, his fingers getting caught in the ends. He wrestled them free. "Mostly not fighting each other, I'd imagine."

Pensively, Tom stared at the floor. His shoes seemed small and new the ancient, majestic stones. No one had ever proposed this to Tom before; the mean boys at Wool's would have never done what Lucius had just done. A truce? Why? Clearly, Lucius didn't think he could beat Tom, otherwise he wouldn't have humbled himself.

"Alright," Tom said, looking up. "I'll accept your truce, as long as you accept that I'm the leader."

Lucius stuck his chin out. "What?"

"I'll only accept your truce if you agree that I'm the leader."

Lucius again smoothed back his hair. "What is that supposed to mean? Like I'm your slave?"

"It means that _I_ always have the last word," clarified Tom. Tom was going to make sure this was as permanent as possible. It wouldn't do to have Lucius calling a truce one minute and then picking on Quirrell the next. Lucius was a loose cannon and Tom needed to be able to control him. "It won't mean anything, usually. But on the rare occasion that I tell you to do something, you have to do it."

Lucius scoffed. "Why?" he asked with all the outrage his class afforded him.

Tom frowned, his face cold as stone. "Because I'm stronger than you."

"What? You're not—"

"I'm. _Stronger. _Than. You," insisted Tom. "And you know it."

The boys glared at each other for ten seconds in the kind of stare-down Quirrell and Severus said didn't exist; it _did_ exist, and Tom was winning. He could see it in the way Lucius' stern eyebrows began to waver. Finally, the pureblood lowered his gaze. "Fine," he growled.

Tom nodded benevolently. "Good." He held out his hand. "We have a truce."

Lucius shook his hand, still glaring at the floor. "Truce."

Now _this_ is something Tom could write in his journal.

* * *

A/N: And so, Lucius and Tom were best friends forevermore. Not really, but it's a start; and besides, I didn't get the impression that Lucius and Tom were ever very good friends, even when Lucius was a Death Eater. Lucius always seemed scared of Tom and hoping to ride his coattails into power. Unlike Bellatrix and Wormtail, who seem more excited about Voldemort, himself.


	6. Baby You're Not Alone, 'Cause You're

Chapter Six: Baby, you're not alone, 'cause you're here with me

"Each of you get one rag and one bucket. You need to get onto your ladders, pull out the books on the top shelves—carefully, mind you!—and wipe down the shelf. Anything that comes off the shelf, whether it be dust, spiders, or pieces of books, all of it needs to go in your buckets. I don't want any of it getting on lower shelves or the floor."

Tom rubbed his eyes. He was tired and was not in the mood for this.

Lucius raised his hand, with a snottily concerned look on his face. "Sir, can't we just knock it onto the floor and then sweep it up later?"

Professor Munch, the librarian looked aghast. "I suppose you think that would be easier, don't you?" Yes, thought Tom, but it was clearly a rhetorical question that required a different answer. "I suppose you think you can just go and dirty other books!"

"The books are already dirty," Lucius continued. "And we're going to have to dust them off, too, so…"

"In due time, Mr. Malfoy, in due time. But not tonight and stars help you if you leave the library messier than when you found it."

Lucius was fuming, not used to being talked to like that, obviously. He glanced at Tom and without thinking, Tom glanced away to avoid awkward eye contact. He hoped they would be having detention separately. As long as he and Quirrell could work in close proximity of each other, Lucius and the only other detentioneer, a girl with frizzy black hair, could work separately.

The librarian nodded, a jittery repetitive motion that signified she was thinking and also that her answer to Malfoy had shut him up. "Well." She clapped her hands together. "It takes two people to work a ladder and unshelve books. Four of you, so that means two teams. Mr. Malfoy, you go with Mr. Quirrell, and Mr. Riddle, you are with Miss Black."

Tom and Quirrell looked at each other unhappily. "But—" Tom began.

"Problem, Mr. Riddle?" asked Professor Munch.

"I'd just, I'd rather be with Quirrell," explained Tom.

"Well, Mr. Riddle, this _is _detention, after all. It isn't supposed to be particularly pleasant. Now, you and Miss Black take this bookshelf right here. There's a ladder halfway down, I'm sure you can see. And Mr. Quirrell and Mr. Malfoy, follow me please."

Sulkily, Tom grabbed the bucket and rag and heaved it to the far end of the bookshelf. Miss Black followed close behind. Without a word, Tom set down the bucket and went to fetch the ladder. Again, Miss Black followed, almost skipped. She had way too much energy.

"You're kind of a narglehead," she remarked.

A mix of anger and confusion flared up in Tom's stomach. What kind of introduction was that? Tom ignored her, grabbed the rag, and ascended the ladder.

"I _said_, you're kind of a narglehead," Miss Black repeated.

"I heard you the first time," sighed Tom.

"But you didn't answer, so how was I supposed to know?"

"I didn't answer because that was rude."

"How was that rude?"

"You just insulted me!" roared Tom, prying a book from the top shelf. "And I don't even know you."

"Don't you even know what 'narglehead' _means_?"

Tom swallowed and focused on dusting.

Miss Black drew in her breath in horror. "Are you muggle-born?"

"No!" Tom said so forcefully that it was obvious he was lying.

"But _everyone_ in the wizarding world knows what 'narglehead' means," insisted Miss Black. When Tom didn't respond, Miss Black climbed onto the ladder with him, forcing Tom to scoot to one side and hang on for dear life.

"Please get down," Tom said, trying to keep the shake out of his voice.

"'Narglehead' just means that you act like you have nargles in your ears, as in you stare a lot and you get confused easily. It isn't an insult, it's just a saying."

Tom stared and got confused a lot because the wizarding world was completely foreign to him. Forget trying to learn what his lessons were about; he had his work cut out for him trying to figure out how to get into the Slytherin dorms and trying to figure out how to use a quill, but he wasn't about to tell _her_ that. It would make him look like a muggle.

So instead of any sort of explanation or retaliation, he responded: "Oh."

"I'm Bellatrix, by the way. And I already know you. You're Tom Riddle. People are saying you've set the record for earliest and most frequent fights."

Tom silently wiped the shelf and took out another book.

"You don't take anything from anyone, do you? You show them all who's boss right from the start, don't you? You're not afraid to make enemies."

"Neither are you, clearly," muttered Tom, not meaning for her to hear. But she did hear; Bellatrix heard everything, commented on everything, to the point that Tom thought it might have been easier to work with Lucius.

"Look, um—"

"Bellatrix."

"Bellatrix," said Tom, "I want to get through this as quickly as possible, and my arm's starting to hurt. Could you take my place on the ladder for a while?"

Bellatrix smiled. "Sure!" She tried climbing the ladder before Tom had quite gotten down. He thought she would realize her mistake and then wait for him, but instead she kept pushing and eventually she was at the top, Tom was standing on the floor, and neither of them had fallen.

"It's nice of you to give me a turn up on the ladder," said Bellatrix, "but I feel I should warn you that it doesn't matter how quickly or slowly we work; detention is measured in hours, not tasks."

"How could you possibly know that?" asked Tom.

"Just guessing. They told us to show up at a certain time and said when it would end, so obviously it's measured in hours."

Tom nodded and gazed around. Professor Munch was nowhere in sight. "I'm going to see how the other team is doing."

"What? But you're supposed to be helping me," pouted Bellatrix.

"I'll be right back," Tom assured her, already walking away.

Tom spied Lucius on the other side of the bookshelf. He walked to him.

"Trade," said Tom, with as much dignity as he could, as much control as he could: lips in a hard line, shoulders square, eyelids half-closed.

Lucius smiled incredulously. "What?"

"I want you to trade with me," Tom replied with less dignity. "I know you don't want to be with Quirrell—"

"On the contrary, we're working together quite well." He looked over his shoulder. "Aren't we, Squirrely?"

"When is it going to be your turn?" Quirrell called from atop the ladder.

"See? We're practically brothers," smiled Lucius.

Tom glared at Lucius. "Remember our agreement."

"Yes, I remember," said Lucius flippantly.

"That wasn't a question. It was a command."

Lucius' eyebrows rose. "Oh," he said quickly. He looked around for the librarian but Professor Munch was nowhere in sight. Lucius gave a gratuitous sigh. "Fine. I'll switch."

Tom smiled smugly and walked towards Quirrell's ladder. Lucius grabbed him by the shoulder, and Tom tore it away.

"A friendly warning, though," said Lucius. "Don't overdo it with these 'commands' or I'll tell Dumbledore. Getting you expelled might just be worth another bop on the nose."

Tom rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Trust me," he said. "If you tell Dumbledore, it will be much more than a 'bop on the nose.'"

"There you are!" came Bellatrix's voice from behind Tom.

Tom went to Quirrell's ladder; before Quirrell had quite gotten to the bottom, Tom had grabbed him by the arm and was pulling him past Lucius and Bellatrix.

"We're switching partners," said Tom quickly. "Professor Munch said it would make work go faster."

Bellatrix watched them go, her mouth hanging open, the dust rag limp in her hand. "But—"

"Professor's rule," Quirrell confirmed with a smile as Tom dragged him away.

Bellatrix stood dumbfounded for a moment. "It is not!" she yelled, much too loud for being in a library. She spun to face Lucius. "They can't do that!" she insisted with a frown. "The professor didn't say anything to them. I would have heard. He's lying through his teeth, the little sneak."

Slowly crossing his arms, Lucius sneered after Tom and Quirrell. "Unbelievable. That mudblood."

"He's a mudblood?" Bellatrix gasped.

Lucius chewed his lip. "I don't know. But he sure as hell acts like one."

Bellatrix threw her rag onto the ground. "This is ridiculous. Go get Professor Munch. Make him make them switch back."

Lucius was quiet. When Bellatrix looked over at him, she saw he was staring, agitated, indecisive: very nargleheaded. Bellatrix couldn't stand indecision. "So?" she prodded. "What are you waiting for?"

Lucius sighed angrily and walked back towards the ladder, spitefully pulling a book off the shelf so that it fell to the floor. "Leave them."

"What? But they'd get in trouble if you only told the professor."

Lucius was silent.

Bellatrix approached Lucius, studying his face. This wasn't about telling on Tom and Quirrell anymore; this was something bigger and much more interesting. She got closer and closer until she was nose to nose with him.

"Why won't you rat him out?" she asked, a tinge of delight in her voice.

Lucius escaped up the ladder. "B-because. I don't want to cause any more trouble."

A smile curled Bellatrix's lips. She rocked back and forth on her heels. "I don't believe you," she sang.

Lucius' voice was so quiet it didn't sound like even he believed what he was saying. "I just want to get this detention over with and go to bed."

"You won't tell because then you'll be in trouble with Tom, which is worse than being in trouble with Professor Munch."

"Shut up."

"Ahh, it's true then." Bellatrix was delighted. "What did he say to make you so loyal? Did he threaten you?"

"He's just persuasive," said Lucius. "Merlin's beard, will you leave it at that."

But she wouldn't. No sooner had Bellatrix finished talking than she had scampered back around the bookcase and over to Tom and Quirrell, who were reading books rather than dusting them.

She marched up to Tom, who jumped and reflexively closed the book.

"What did you do to Lucius to make him obey you like that?" she asked.

"He stared at him!" said Quirrell from his perch on the ladder.

Bellatrix cocked her head. "You stared at him?"

Tom rolled his eyes and turned to Quirrell. "It's not staring, it's a 'stare-down.' A mental battle. Not staring."

"Sorry," said Quirrell, reading the book in his lap. "A 'stare-down.'"

"It's a thing, right?" said Tom, desperate for _someone_ to have heard of this method of warfare. "Right?"

"Oh sure," Bellatrix said, shrugging. "I've done it hundreds of times."

Tom smiled at her and then smiled at Quirrell, who waved them on.

"I just can't believe a stare-down would affect Lucius Malfoy so completely. You know his family is pureblood?"

"Mmh."

"I'm pureblood too, you know."

"Mmh."

"Are you?"

Why was everyone always asking him this? What did it matter?

Seeing Tom's distress, Quirrell swooped in to save the day. "He doesn't know," said Quirrell. "He didn't know his parents."

"_What_?" Bellatrix couldn't believe that anyone wouldn't know their own parents. "You mean he stayed with an aunt or something? Surely, he would know whether they were pureblood or not."

"He doesn't have any relatives," Quirrell clarified helpfully. "He grew up in something called an 'orphaning'."

"Orphanage," Tom corrected under his breath.

"So he doesn't know," Quirrell continued.

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. "Hm," she hummed, stepping closer to Tom. "I bet I can tell. I'm pretty good at figuring out blood purity."

"Bellatrix, no you can't," said Quirrell, rolling his eyes. "Mum says that telling a person's blood purity without looking at their ancestry is just superstition and party games."

Bellatrix glared at Quirrell and Quirrell's smug smile quickly dropped. He went back to reading.

"Oh really?" she said, swaying her hips in an exaggeratedly intentional motion, as she approached Quirrell. "If it's so fake, why don't you let me figure out _your_ blood purity?"

Quirrell glanced at Tom; Tom shrugged. "O-o-okay," said Quirrell in a small voice as he closed the book. "Go ahead."

Bellatrix got even closer to Quirrell. She pressed her forehead to his, never breaking eye contact. She sniffed and Quirrell jumped. She put her hands on either side of his head and gathered his hair in bunches.

"Is that really necessary—"

"Shh!"

There was definitely spittle in that shush: spittle that was now on Quirrell's face. Tom grimaced.

"You're eyes, your breath, your bearing…" Bellatrix began, in a mystical voice, "The wizarding world is not strange to you. You are not muggle-born. You have at least one wizarding parent. But your hair…" she fluffed his hair again. "And your voice, and your smell…" she inhaled again for effect. "screams muggle. But faintly."

"How can something scream faintly…" murmured Tom.

"Shh!" Quirrell was sprayed again. "I would say…half-blood."

Bellatrix squished Quirrell's cheeks, maintaining uncomfortable eye contact.

"Th-thath's not fair," said Quirrell through pinched lips. "You probably know my parenth from thomwhere."

Bellatrix let him go and straightened up. "Don't count on it. I'm just that good." She glanced at Tom. "Want me to read _your _blood purity?"

"Not particularly," muttered Tom.

Having given a correct prediction, Bellatrix was in too good a mood to be upset at Tom's refusal. "Well, let me know if you change your mind." She danced away, back to Lucius and back to work. Tom stared after her.

"What a narglehead," said Quirrell when she had gone. "Thinking she can guess a person's blood purity by yanking their hair and spitting on them. …My face hurts."

"Yes, definitely mental," agreed Tom, yet he was still smiling. She was terrifying and annoying, but Tom could tell she was intelligent and powerful: a free-thinker.

He shook it off. "We should at least make it look like we're cleaning the shelves," said Tom, putting his book back. "at least until Professor Munch has checked on us and gone again."

Quirrell shut his book loudly and balanced it on the rung beside him. "You're probably right," he said as he climbed the ladder, still rubbing his cheeks.

* * *

A/N: Reading blood purity in the wizarding world is akin to making cootie catchers in the muggle world: fun to try at sleepovers and birthday parties but no one actually believes it works-except Bellatrix.


	7. Too Bad You're a Loser, Too Bad

Chapter Seven: Too bad you're a loser, too bad you waste my time

If Tom was completely honest with himself—which he never was—he would admit that he liked Bellatrix, at least a little bit. But Tom was not completely honest with himself or with anyone else, so when Quirrell expressed at the end of detention that he was glad to be rid of the face-squishing witch, Tom could only agree.

But it was not to be. Bellatrix _was _in Slytherin, after all. And once you've had your face squished by someone, you immediately pick them out of every crowd and you realize that your path crosses with theirs all the time. Bellatrix was a first-year Slytherin, so she was in all Tom and Quirrell's classes. Whenever she could, she sat next to Tom, whispered to and touched him. She was the worst tease Tom had ever met, but she wasn't a bully. Bellatrix was infatuated with Tom and did whatever she could to snatch his attention; she poked him, hid his things, ate off his plate…Tom's mild amusement with her was thinning and he was finding it harder and harder not to react in violence.

"Just tell her to go away," said Quirrell matter-of-factly one afternoon as he and Tom studied in the library after lunch. "She obviously can't read subtly. Best to tell it to her in no uncertain terms."

"It's not as simple as that," argued Tom, copying a map of the Eurasian Steppes for History of Magic. "She thinks I'm amazing."

"And she'll continue to think you're amazing," said Quirrell. "She is _quite _persistent."

"You're probably right," mused Tom. "But I don't want her to go away entirely, I just want her to tone it down a little. I'll wait it out. Maybe she'll get bored, and I won't have to make her angry."

Quirrell rolled his eyes and went back to his homework. "Whatever you say, Tom. But if she hasn't gotten the hint by now, I don't think she ever will."

"Hey, no pessimism," teased Tom, doing his best to be jovial. It felt strange, but that was just because he didn't have much experience. "Only optimism is allowed. You made me agree to that, so now I'm holding you to your end of the deal."

Tom's attempt at joking worked. Quirrell smiled; the face he made when he was absolutely delighted: sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks—Tom had never seen the kind of joy that graced Quirrell's face. Tom would do anything to keep getting to see that expression. Instead of continually prodding Quirrell in attempts to make him smile, maybe it would be easier for Tom to take a photograph. No, that wouldn't work. The best part was the beginning: when Quirrell's little mouth and worried eyes bloomed into that smile. A continuous smile wouldn't do; Tom needed to keep _making_ Quirrell smile. Continuous beginnings of that smile. That's what Tom needed to see.

When Tom was done musing, he realized that Quirrell had already gone back to his book, face slack in concentration.

Tom looked at the grandfather clock at the end of the aisle. He closed his book. "Class is starting soon, Quirrell. Look sharp."

Surprised, Quirrell looked at the clock. "So it is! I must admit I'm excited for Transfiguration today. It's mostly practicing our Transfiguration spells, rather than lecture."

Tom smiled. He loved lectures, but hands-on days were his favorite. He put his book back into his bag, automatically reaching is hand inside with the book to make sure his wand wasn't in the way. That was odd: he didn't even feel his wand pouch. Tom dug in his bag a little further and checked the other pockets. He emptied the contents of the bag onto the table.

"What are you doing?" panicked Quirrell. "We've got to get to class!"

"I can't find my wand," explained Tom as he rifled through his belongings and then checked the bag carefully. "It's not in my bag."

"Oh," said Quirrell, moving closer to help search. "Could you have left it in our last class?"

"Maybe, I guess, but—" Tom stopped. He kicked the floor in frustration. "I left it on my bed. I went up there before lunch to get the books for my afternoon classes and I must have forgotten to put it back in my bag."

"We still have time," encouraged Quirrell with a smile. "Here, I'll finish putting all this back in your bag and you run up and grab it. I'll catch up."

Tom smiled. "Thanks, Quirrell," he said.

"Oh, no problem," said Quirrell sheepishly. "Hurry!"

Tom ran out of the library and up to the Slytherin dormitory as quickly as he could without getting caught. He had to stop for breath once he got into the Common Room. Wheezing, he climbed the stairs to his room.

Standing at the top was frizzy hair, big brown eyes and a cocky smile. In her hand was a wand: his wand. Tom was way past done with her shit.

"Give me back my wand!" Tom hollered, trying to grab it out of Bellatrix's hand.

Bellatrix yanked it back, an impish grin on her pale face. "You left it unattended, so finders keepers."

"It was in my _room_, which you have no business being in, by the way. And that's not leaving it unattended!" said Tom, livid. It was one thing to challenge him. It was another to steal from him: and his wand, no less!

"Give it!"

"Make me!" Bellatrix stuck out her tongue.

Tom snapped. Without magic, Tom reacted the only way he knew how. He lunged at her—

"No Tom!" cried Quirrell, who had just come up the stairs behind him. He was gasping for breath and clutching the back of Tom's robes.

Tom stopped, breathing heavily, glaring at Quirrell. "Let go."

"You'll get expelled," Quirrell said desperately, standing up more fully.

"I don't care!"

"You will, once y-you get your head back!" Quirrell frowned sternly. "Remember your dream, Tom. You want to become the greatest wizard in the world. You can't do that if you don't learn magic, and you can't learn magic if you get expelled. Dumbledore can take care of trespassers well enough.

Tom was fuming, but he didn't attack Bellatrix. Quirrell was right; he needed to think about the future. In the future, Bellatrix wouldn't matter. He probably wouldn't even remember her name once he became an adult; he would be consumed with being a professional wizard. He wouldn't have time for silly squabbles.

Keeping all that in mind and trying to act thirty rather than eleven, Tom stepped fully into the room and extended his hand, staring warningly at Bellatrix. "Give me the wand," he demanded icily.

Bellatrix clutched the wand to her chest, uncertainty playing on her features. She didn't think this game she was playing was fun anymore, but she didn't know how to ease out of it without losing. So she stood there looking conflicted, keeping the wand far away from Tom.

Tom swallowed, the only manifestation of his rage being the vein throbbing in his neck. "Give. Me. The. Wand. Or I'll tell Dumbledore and you'll be expelled. Thievery is illegal, you know, and Dumbledore told me, himself, that it is handled quite severely at Hogwarts."

Bellatrix deliberated for another moment. "Promise you won't tell on me."

"Only if you give my wand back _right now_," said Tom.

Bellatrix exhaled and walked forward, ready to return Tom's wand. "Here," she muttered.

Tom smiled to himself and took the end in his hand.

A mischievous glint in her eye, Bellatrix suddenly yanked the wand back, meaning to have one last poke at Tom before she relinquished her prize. But Tom's reflexes were quick and his fingers clamped onto his side of the wand and he yanked, too.

There was a sickening crunch of wood and old resin: sickening because all three of them knew what had crunched. Tom looked at his half of the wand, and Bellatrix looked at hers. Quirrell, shocked into silence, squeezed past Tom and crouched to pick up the hair and other shattered pieces of the core that had fallen out when Tom's wand had been split in two.

Tom was so angry he wanted to cry. "M-my wand," he gasped. "You…my wand…"

The impishness drained from Bellatrix. She liked to have fun, but she wasn't dense; she knew how precious wands were. She gave Tom the other half of his wand. "I…am so sorry…" she said, and Merlin's beard, did she mean it.

Quirrell stood and carefully closed the wand debris in his hands. He glared at Bellatrix and Tom thought he was going to hit her. But that wasn't the way Quirrell operated; no, Quirrell did nothing but shake his head in disappointment. His lip quivered and tears were gathering on his lashes.

"Are you happy now?" Quirrell asked in the quietest, most scathing voice Tom had ever heard; so powerful was his voice that Tom almost felt ashamed on Bellatrix's behalf.

"I—I'm not happy, no!" protested Bellatrix. "Tom, I am so so so so _so_ sorry—"

"Yeah, _you are_," spit Tom, turning around and marching down the stairs. What did she want? Forgiveness? She didn't deserve it.

Quirrell followed after Tom, keeping pace and staring at his cupped hands. "It will be fine," Quirrell assured him, softly sniffing. "I'm sure lots of students break their wands. Dumbledore will know what to do."

Tom glanced at Quirrell, then ahead again. "Why are you crying?" he asked, working to cover his own sorrow with anger, which was a much more acceptable emotion for a wizard to have. He steeled his jaw and his watery eyes turned to steel. "_You _didn't break your wand."

Quirrell wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. "Mum says I have an empathetic heart," he explained, blubbering. "I cry when other people are sad."

Tom forced his own lip not to quiver. "Well don't," he said. "It's just making this whole thing worse."

"Sorry—"

"It's fine, just…don't."

* * *

A/N: It's all fun and games until someone breaks their wand, thinks their wizarding career is over, and ostracizes you.


End file.
